


Lessons Learned

by picothelibrarian



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Matchmaking, Multi, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-07 21:40:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 16,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12850065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/picothelibrarian/pseuds/picothelibrarian
Summary: Working on a surveillance mission in Istanbul, Gaby, Illya and Solo each share their expertise with the others.





	1. Chapter 1

“And you have a new codename."

"Codename?"

"Yes. Rather a good one: UNCLE.”

Waverly briefed them on the flight from Rome to Istanbul. It had been a quiet flight, even Solo’s usual jesting had vanished in the face of their abrupt secondment to U.N.C.L.E.

Their mission was surveillance, intelligence and infiltration. An opium baron, whose heroin and opium made its way through the French Connection to Europe, was now suspecting of using the profits to fund a criminal empire encompassing organized crime in Turkey, Syria, and Iran. The team from U.N.C.L.E. were to report on Cemal Şentürk: his family, his work, his business. They were to establish the patterns of his movements and those of his close family and associates. Once they had gathered sufficient intelligence, as determined by himself, Waverly had stressed in their briefing, they would be assigned covers and make contact with the organization. Solo was to be alert to any rogue CIA activity and Kuryakin to any from the Soviets.

“Turkey exists in a vulnerable position,” Waverly explained, “Soviet pressure from the north, instability in Syria to the south, the coup in ‘60. Their government is maintaining a precarious balance between West and East. Our job is to see that Şentürk does not disrupt that balance.”

They were given thick dossiers on Şentürk’s past and criminal present. The cabin was silent as all three flipped through the photographs and intelligence reports. When the plane began its descent into Istanbul, Solo put the folder away into his briefcase and closed his eyes.

The CIA had released him to U.N.C.L.E. That was an interesting development. For all he would never say it out loud, it had been enjoyable to work with Gaby and Illya in Rome. He had shown off for them and been challenged by them, both of which he enjoyed. And Waverly seemed all right. Solo had met his kind before, after the war. He was no fool but he would be more polite about his interference than Sanders was. The CIA abrasiveness was one reason Solo tried to capture a certain European civility in his own persona. The accent mattered when trying to persuade people to listen to you.

No, it wasn’t Waverly he was thinking about. This mission seemed likely to be a long one and the three of them would be in close quarters. Solo snuck a glance at Gaby, across from him, and Illya across the aisle. A small smile creased his face as he considered the two of them. What had begun as a way to tease the Russian in Rome now had the appearance of an affair with real potential. He would keep an eye on those two.

The plane touched down at Yeşilköy Airport and they were whisked away to their accommodations by a blank faced driver in a sleek black car. Gaby murmured appreciatively as they got in and the car engine hummed beneath them.

Instead of a hotel, U.N.C.L.E. put the three spies in a shared house in the Karaköy district. Like many of the Turkish buildings, it had a severe front facing the street, with few windows and high walls but opened onto a tranquil inner courtyard. It was less ornate than the hotel in Rome but had been stocked with all the creature comforts - which for Solo meant a fully stocked bar and kitchen, for Gaby, a private room and separate garage, and for Illya windows from which he could survey the whole street and a bed long enough for his frame. Despite its apparent modesty and Waverly’s description of haste, the apartment had clearly been prepared for them.

The crisis came after dinner. Waverly had departed almost immediately ‘to let you get settled.’

“Settle into his own pied-a-terre, no doubt,” said Solo, amused. “Looks like you’re stuck with us, Peril.”

Illya was standing by the window in the sitting room, frowning. “It is not right. Rome was supposed to be one time mission. I work for the KGB, not England. I am a genuine agent.”

“Unlike me, you mean?” Solo said evenly. Gaby shot him a warning look which he ignored.

Illya waved his hand, “You are agent because you are afraid of prison. It is not the same.”

“Use your head Kuryakin.” Solo’s voice was the same light monotone Illya remembered from that other conversation in the cafe in West Berlin. His face held the same pleasant blankness.

“You’re here because you’re volatile. They don’t completely trust you. Your handlers know you’ll blow up one day in a way they can’t hide. Better to make you Waverly’s problem; better to make you U.N.C.L.E.’s problem, get you out of the way.”

Illya’s hands were trembling. Solo’s words made their way somehow through the roaring of his blood in his ears.

“Solo, stop it,” Gaby said sharply.

“I hear you left quite the mess in the hotel room in Rome. Damages for Waverly to pay for and sweep under the rug. Your people are treating you like an animal. Better to let you bite someone else.”

Illya snapped and threw himself at Solo, who put his hands up to protect his face but doesn’t move otherwise. Illya punched him once, violently, in the stomach before he realized Solo wasn’t fighting. Gaby gasped but he didn’t look at her. He grabbed Solo’s lapels and hauled him in close.

“And your people,” he spat out, “your people are glad to see you gone. You have no respect. You -” he gave him another shake “-are very difficult to work with.”

He dropped Solo roughly and left. His blood was still thundering through his body and his hands shook. He ran down the stairs in their apartment and out onto the street. He walked quickly, always moving to quieter and less crowded streets. He almost hoped someone would try to attack him; then he would know what to do with the violence pressing against his thoughts.

It was late when he returned to their apartment but the light was still on in Solo’s room. Illya opened the door to see Solo in his shirtsleeves writing in a journal and Gaby lying on her back on the floor, her feet up on an armchair, reading a book.

“I am not an animal.” Illya announced.

Solo raised his head and an eyebrow. “Never said you were, Peril.”

“I am a fighter. You, Cowboy, are a terrible fighter. I will teach you, both of you.”

Gaby grinned mischievously. “I already beat you at wrestling,” she said, “But I’ll let you try again.”

“I can handle myself in a fight without your help,” Solo said, arrogantly.

“No,” Illya shook his head, “You are a good shot but no good in fistfight. And since now I am stuck with you, we need to be a better team. I cannot be the only one to kill our enemies. Tomorrow morning we will start.”


	2. Chapter 2

To Napoleon’s surprise, he not only awoke early the next morning to meet Illya and Gaby in the courtyard before breakfast but Illya proved himself to be an exceedingly good instructor. Secretly, Napoleon know Illya was the better hand fighter. He was a thief; he tried to avoid a fight if he could and preferred a gun in his hand if not. Gaby had had some training from Waverly but her deep cover in East Berlin meant she had not gotten a lot of practice. Illya set them to spar with each other so he could observe.

Then he practiced with each of them himself, testing their limits and correcting their mistakes. “No.” he said, when Solo stepped back after landing a blow to the side of his head, “You have advantage now. Hit again, come forward. We are not gentlemen; we are spies.”

With Gaby, Illya set her rounds of pushups and strength exercises. She was strong but lacked the stamina of the two men. Solo thought too much when he fought, always following the rules of the game. Gaby didn’t think enough, throwing herself into it and forgetting the drills and blocks that Illya was teaching them. In those morning practice sessions, Illya never got angry. He was focused and patient and calm. It was easy to see, Solo reflected, what had made him one of the best KGB agents.

One morning’s practice, Solo finally succeeded in pinning Illya to the ground. He knelt on the Russian’s back, twisting his arms behind him. Illya thrashed but Solo trapped his legs with one of his own.

“Say it,” Solo panted, grinning. “It’s over.” Their safe word had been his idea, and after explaining the joke to the other two, it had caught on. Solo was looking forward to Illya having to say it for the first time.

“Uncle,” mumbled Illya, his cheek pressed into the paving stones. Solo let him up, looking pleased with himself. “You did very well, Cowboy,” said Illya. “But I could have got up.”

“Come on, Peril, admit it. I won.” 

“Like I said, you did very well. But look, I will show you. I am not boasting.” Illya lay back down on the floor, offering his hands behind his back.

Gaby was watching them with interest. Solo raised his eyebrows in resignation and knelt on top of Illya again, trapping his arms and legs.

“All right Peril. Let’s see the super agent escape.”

Illya concentrated. Solo had improved a great deal and was almost a match now for Illya himself. But Illya had something that Solo lacked: that little bit of animal inside of him. He let himself go completely limp and then tensed and thrashed violently. His head bashed painfully against the ground and his shoulders wrenched in their sockets but he felt Solo’s grip slip and then he could flip himself over, his stomach muscles screaming as he hurled himself off the ground without the use of his legs. He rolled over onto Solo and pushed his forearm against his throat.

“I said I could do it, Cowboy.” His head throbbed but he was smiling as he said it.

Solo laughed, “You are a machine, Peril. I give up.”

Illya released Solo’s throat but as soon as he did, Napoleon’s arm swept up and grabbed him around the neck. Spinning him around into a headlock, Solo tightened his grip. “I didn’t say uncle. Never trust a spy.”

Illya couldn’t laugh because Solo was choking him. Instead of pulling away, he pushed into Solo’s side and sent them both sprawling. Quickly, Illya had pinned Solo again. “You are a terrible spy.”

Both of them were taken by surprise when Gaby hurled into their midst and knocked them over. Landing on top of Solo, she cocked an imaginary gun against his forehead as Illya got to his feet.

“Surrender or your partner gets it,” she growled at Illya, grinding her knee into Solo’s chest. “Neither of you have any brains. You’d be too busy arguing to notice reinforcements.”

Illya raised his hands, “Ok Chop Shop Girl, I surrender. Practice is over for today.”

Gaby watched Solo and Illya closely over dinner that night. By the end of the night she was convinced. She had seen that look in Illya’s eyes before. She was less sure if Solo had noticed. They were such fools, the pair of them, thinking they were so clever and strong and missing everything that was obvious. Clearly she would have to take matters into her own hands.

They returned to the courtyard for a last drink under the stairs. At least, Solo and Gaby were drinking reiki and Illya was pretending to play chess. 

Gaby stood up and raised her glass. “To Illya Kuryakin, our fighting teacher.”

Solo raised his glass slightly and Illya looked at them both, a little suspiciously but also pleased.

Gaby spun around, “And now you,” she said, pointing at Solo, “What have you got to teach us?”

Solo leaned back in his chair considering. “What could I teach you?” he mused, “It’s hard to think which of the multitudinous skills you both desperately need is the most crucial.”

Illya puffed through his lips skeptically. 

“I think I have just the thing,” Solo’s eyes were twinkling in a way that made Gaby quash butterflies in her own stomach. “No, I won’t tell you. I’ll be ready tomorrow evening.”


	3. Chapter 3

When tomorrow came, however, Solo’s lessons had to be postponed. New orders came in from Waverly. Their intelligence gathering up to that point had been slow going. Gaby could tell that the rest of her team were chafing at the slow pace of this mission. More accustomed to waiting than the others, she had little patience for Illya’s brooding and Solo’s desperate exuberance.

Now things were heating up and Waverly wanted them to move faster. Şentürk was hosting a boat party on the Bosphorus the following week and they needed to secure invitations for Solo and Gaby. Waverly brought short dossiers with information on their new covers.

Solo was Hank Maxwell, a Texas oil tycoon interested in diversifying his portfolio into the lucrative field that was arms running. Gaby was his wife, Elsbeth, a pretty socialite with a discreet gambling problem. 

“People talk when they’re winning,” explained Waverly.

“Do I have to do the accent?” asked Solo, flipping through the pages, “Oh, no, educated abroad. That would have scrubbed the Texan drawl.”

“We’ll be keeping Kuryakin out of it for the time being. No sense in putting all our eggs in one basket,” said Waverly, “But I’ve brought along yours as well.”

Illya’s cover would be the agent of a wealthy British aristo with interests in opium, both financial and personal. Fedor Lepyokhin was the eyes, ears and purchasing power for his anonymous patron. 

“Now, in order to acquire invitations to the party, we will have to move quickly. Based on your information, we know that Şentürk’s wife visits the hamman three times a week. Miss Teller, we expect you to make contact with her there.”

“Alone?” Illya’s voice was a warning rumble.

Waverly looked at him sharply. “Miss Teller is a competent agent in her own right and I hope I do not have to remind you of the fact.” He continued, suddenly genial, “Now, I’ll leave you to get acquainted with your new selves. It might be a good idea to visit a tailor: the Maxwells are not the sort to know the meaning of the word subtle.”

Waverly left the apartment and disappeared down the street with the aimless foppish walk that immediately identified him as an Englishman abroad and ensured no one would give him a second look. Inside, a fight was brewing between Gaby and Illya.

“She should not be going alone.”

“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here! Anyway, what could happen to me in a bath? Afraid I’ll slip on the soap?” Gaby’s arms were crossed as she stared down Illya.

“You should have backup,” said Illya.

“It’s women’s only,” retorted Gaby, “You can’t hover outside the door.”

“Fine,” said Illya shortly, “I go but to the men’s side.”

“What? That’s not what I meant. You don’t need to come.”

Illya’s expression was stubborn. Gaby turned to Solo, about to demand his support against Illya’s ridiculous protectiveness - until a sudden thought stopped her. Illya at the hammam. She had never visited a Turkish bath before but her imagination conjured up a few lurid ideas. 

“It doesn’t make sense for you to go. We can’t make contact as our covers. Solo should go too.”

Both men looked up at her abruptly, Illya frowning and Solo with his eyebrows twisted up in surprise.

“My ‘husband’ ought to chaperone me. Either you both go or neither of you do,” Gaby said firmly. To her surprise, neither man argued and she quickly left the room so they couldn’t change their minds. She knew there was a hole in her logic and wanted to escape before she could be argued down.

Upstairs, Gaby studied her dossier, feeling pleased with herself. She had just managed to throw Illya and Solo together, alone, in a steamy Turkish bath. Neither man seemed to have noticed the lingering glances they were receiving from their counterpoint. This was the perfect opportunity to force them to see each other in a different light. It was a pity that the Turkish baths were segregated; she would have enjoyed the spectacle herself. Then again, that would defeat the whole purpose of her plan. She resigned herself to imagining Solo’s strong shoulders out of his immaculate suits and Illya’s tall body beaded with moisture…Gaby shook her head. That line of thought was distracting and there was work to do.

\--------

“We should not be seen together,” muttered Illya as Solo sat down next to him in the steam room.

“Why, honey, you didn’t seem to mind last night,” drawled Solo.

“What?”

“Peril, relax. I’ve just introduced myself. We’re having a casual conversation.” 

Illya folded his arms defensively. The action pulled Solo’s attention to the Russian’s torso, hitherto hidden underneath dark turtlenecks and now revealed as lean and muscled. Solo would have expected nothing less, given Peril’s almost superhuman strength, but seeing it was something else. He swallowed and looked away.

“Ever been to one of these before?” he asked, aiming for nonchalance. 

Illya shook his head. “Public baths, yes. But not like this.”

Solo stretched and leaned back against the wall. “Luxurious, isn’t it.”

The bath consisted of a large circular room. A skylight at the top of a domed ceiling let in the hazy afternoon sunlight. A stone bench lined the walls where men sat or lay, steaming themselves. Attendants kept the room at a perfect temperature, the air warm and heavy with moisture. In the centre of the room were tables where visitors could be washed or massaged. A side room held a hot pool and a cold pool. It was a social atmosphere, with men sitting in pairs or small groups and chatting quietly. Some were alone and appeared to be napping. Every so often, someone would stand and dive into the cold pool or fill a small copper bowl to splash water on themselves.

Solo felt himself relaxing. It was almost unavoidable in such an environment. He was sweating but the sensation was cleansing and comfortable. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, enjoying the feeling of the warm heavy air in his lungs. He glanced at Illya. The Russian was sitting bolt upright, arms still crossed. He showed no signs of relaxing.

As if to prove it, Illya said, “How do you think it is going with our friend?”

Solo knew he meant Gaby. “I’m sure she’s fine. She knows what she’s doing. And we’re close by.”

“We should have stayed outside. What if she is kidnapped?”

“Who would kidnap her? And it would look ridiculous to wait outside,” answered Solo. He stood up, “I’m going to get a massage while we have the chance to relax for an hour.”

He almost missed how Illya eyes flickered up and down his body but Solo had been the recipient of that gaze too many other times. Was Peril blushing or was he just flushed from the warm room? 

“Decadent Westerner,” muttered Illya.

“Unlike some,” retorted Solo, “I am not allergic to pleasure.”

As he lay down on the stone table and the attendant rubbed oil into his back, Solo found himself second guessing himself. He must have imagined it. Maybe the heat was affecting his brain. After all, Illya’s eyes had always been for Gaby. Hadn’t they?

Solo turned his head on his arms to look over at Illya. The Russian stood and stretched and then walked into the cold pool room. Solo felt a flutter in his stomach and inconveniently lower down at the sight of Illya’s sweat-beaded body. He had a brief hallucination of Illya’s strong hands being the ones that currently kneaded and massaged his shoulders. He was glad to be lying on his stomach. 

This wouldn’t do. He would have to do a better job at throwing Illya and Gaby together. That affair had the makings of a sure thing and whatever he felt right now, in the illusory safety of the baths, was better left alone.

\-------

That night, as they debriefed from the afternoon, Gaby noticed a current of tension running between the two men. It didn’t seem to be antagonistic, which was new, and they both had only vague answers when asked about their experience in the baths. 

She felt particularly pleased with herself. Her contact with Deniz Şentürk had been a success - although she had not yet garnered an invitation to the party, they had arranged to take coffee the next day. And it seemed like her scheme for Illya and Solo had wrought some success as well. Gaby felt she could push her advantage a little farther.

“Don’t think you’re getting out of playing teacher,” she reminded Solo. He looked confused for a moment and then remembered. 

“Oh yes,” he said, with a slow grin, “After your tête-à-tête with Madam Şentürk, I have just the thing.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Cooking?” Gaby sulked as Solo tossed aprons to her and Illya. She felt betrayed. She had been anticipating a more useful skill, safe cracking or code breaking. She looked at Illya, hoping he would back her up. But Illya was standing in the doorway, tying the apron around his waist.

“Practical,” he approved, “But I already know how to cook.”

Solo raised his eyebrows. “I’m sure you can make a mighty borscht - or at least someone can based on the size of you - but the Russian cuisine leaves something to be desired.”

“Russian cuisine is best in the world,” Illya said stiffly. Solo’s expressions showed what he thought about that but he held his tongue. Gaby sighed; she would get no support from Illya if the men were ready to go head to head over soup. Oh well, she thought as she resigned herself to this trial by kitchen, they did say that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. 

Morning combat lessons and evening cooking lessons began to create a structure to their days that bound them together. Their observations of Şentürk and Gaby’s cultivation of a friendship with Deniz Şentürk often separated them during the day, but as the days passed in the Istanbul apartment, they formed a rhythm to their time together. 

Solo took them through his favourite dishes: traditional dishes from around Europe. He preferred simple ingredients and food made from scratch.

“Simple like truffles?” Gaby asked when he mentioned this. 

“Simple does not mean cheap. It means letting the flavours speak for themselves,” he answered. Apparently it also meant learning the correct way to prepare every cut of meat of every animal, vegetable, and edible sea creature under the sun. 

“What does it matter which knife I use?” Gaby complained, “They all cut.”

Solo paused before answering, eyes raised to heaven, in that way that said he was choosing  _ not  _ to say any number of things. “You would not fix every engine problem with a hammer.” He corrected her grip on the filleting knife. “There, try again.”

With dinner came wine pairings, Solo explaining the tasting notes for each course and each bottle. One evening, Illya sniffed his glass and shook his head. “No, it is too sweet. Open Les Hauts de Smith.”

Solo’s eyebrows reached new heights. “It is not too sweet.”

In response, Illya selected his own bottle from the wine rack and opened it. He poured a splash into a new glass and set it in front of Solo. “Taste. Yours is too sweet.”

Resignedly, Solo sipped his glass and took a bite of halibut. He chewed and swallowed. Took a sip of water and repeated the procedure with Illya’s glass. His expression remained carefully neutral as he plugged the cork back into the first bottle and let Illya pour Les Hauts de Smith to the rest of the table. Illya didn’t say anything else but he didn’t need to. Gaby could feel his smugness from across the room. It amused her how much Illya’s rare superiority in Solo’s domain rankled the American.

Gaby remained obstinately pedestrian in the face of Solo’s teaching. The lessons did have some effect but she could never see the point of putting so much effort into something that was so temporary. And if the rice was slightly overcooked or the potatoes gratin slightly under seasoned, was that so terrible a crime? 

Over a meal of beef bourguignon and several bottles of heady red wine, in that hazy period when everyone is made of sparkling wit and bonhomie, Solo got to his feet and raised his glass. 

“Prost, prost,” cheered Gaby.

“Lady and gentleman,” began Solo, “It has been my profound pleasure to instruct you in the culinary arts. Though your journey is only beginning and it may be many years before you reach the mastery of your esteemed teacher-”

“You are not Michelin chef, Cowboy,” interjected Illya. Solo continued undeterred.

“-As I was saying, though much remains to be learned and I despair over Gaby ever having the patience for consommé, I have relished in your early successes.”

Gaby and Illya booed the pun. 

“However!” Solo rolled over their objections, “It has come to my attention that one of our team has not yet contributed fully to this experiment. Our imposing Peril has instructed us in the noble art of pugilism and taught us how to choke a man from four different positions. I myself have laboured to impart the secrets of gastronomic delight.”

“These Americans,” Illya leaned over to Gaby, “They all talk too much.” His blue eyes were bright with amusement and he was almost smiling. Gaby’s breath caught suddenly in her throat.

Solo waved his wine glass gently at the Russian. “Don’t rush me Peril. Like consommé, good speeches take time. East and West have met to share knowledge - knowledge of bloody noses and bloody good cooking. And so I ask you, lady and gentleman gathered here, what has Germany to offer?”

He turned to Gaby.

“Gaby Teller, mechanic and spy, you must be next. You must teach us in the art of engines, nuclear physics, or feminine mysteries. The choice is yours!” 

“Hear, hear.” Illya and Solo solemnly clinked glasses. Solo tilted his glass to hers and Gaby toasted him, tamping down her smile.

“Oh fine,” she said, “Lessons start tomorrow.”


	5. Chapter 5

The day of Şentürk’s party was rapidly approaching. Waverly had arrived for a brief but frowning conversation with Gaby. Illya and Solo ran into each other as they both tried to skulk outside the room.

“What are you doing here Cowboy?” Illya looked disapproving.

“Snooping,” answered Solo. “Plus I’m taking Mrs. Maxwell to coffee later. Probably her last chance to convince Madam Şentürk that her party is incomplete without us.”

“Have you met her yet?” asked Illya.

“Mrs. Şentürk? No, Gaby’s gone alone before. But apparently it’s time I made an appearance.” Solo adjusted his tie although as far as Illya could tell, as was usual with Solo’s sartorial items, it was immaculate. The man was a peacock and no mistake.

A moment later, Waverly and Gaby stepped out of the room, the latter looking distinctly rattled. Waverly was calm as always. He greeted Solo and Illya politely before disappearing.

Solo offered Gaby his arm. “Is the little lady ready to hit the streets and charm the locals?” He spoke in an exaggerated Southern drawl. Gaby scowled at him but took his arm.

“Good luck,” said Illya gruffly as they left. Gaby gave him a small smile.

Out on the street, Solo looked down at Gaby appraisingly. “How bad was it?” he asked.

Gaby huffed irritably. “He is right. I should have done it by now. I played you and Illya; how is this woman so difficult?”

Solo frowned a little at the reminder of his professional failure but rallied. “And you think meeting me will do the trick?”

“No, I do not think that,” said Gaby emphatically, “But if I’m going to talk about having a rich American husband, I should be able to produce him in the flesh.”

Their driver arrived and they stepped into an car, carefully selected to be ostentatious enough to belong to the Maxwells but not so memorable that it would stand out in witness statements. Solo and Gaby settled in the backseat and for a moment there was silence. Their driver was not an U.N.C.L.E. agent; as far as he knew they were the American couple. Solo offered a tidbit of gossip about imaginary friends and their polite fictional conversation lasted until the cafe.

When they entered the cafe, Deniz Şentürk had not arrived. Gaby and Solo sat at a table facing the street and ordered two teas, which came in small fluted glasses on saucers. Gaby stirred sugar into hers and kept stirring, long after it had dissolved. Solo touched her wrist. “Elsie,” he said, staying in character, “Don’t be nervous. It will be alright.”

Gaby shot him a furious look. “I am not nervous,” she hissed. Solo gently took the spoon out of her hand, smiling gently. Then he pulled back and said abruptly, “I’m sorry our perilous friend couldn’t be with you instead of me. I’m afraid I am a poor substitute.”

“What does he have to do with it?” Gaby asked.

“I imagine his presence might be more...reassuring,” said Solo.

“I doubt it will come to a fistfight,” she said, “Deniz doesn’t seem the type.”

Solo took a moment to feel defensive. He’d like to think he would be just as good in a fistfight as the Russian. He’d _like_ to think that but he knew it wasn’t true. “No? And what type is she?”

Gaby leaned towards him to whisper, “The type to eat men whole.”

Solo laughed.“Mrs. Maxwell, you brought me here as bait!”

Gaby smiled and nodded. “You are catching on. It is good that you know your role before she arrives.”

She leaned in again and took Solo’s hand. She turned his palm over and smoothly removed the wedding band he wore in his role as Hank. Tucking it into his breast pocket, she murmured, “Let’s not remind her of any obstacles.”

Solo raised his eyebrows. “You are a cunning one. So tell me, how I should I behave to you? Bored? Passionate? Doting?”

Gaby tilted her head, considering. “Flirtatious but polite with Deniz. Distant enough that she feels she has to work for it but receptive. With me,” she paused, “Passionate but restrained. You’re a man who lives largely. She should be able to imagine how it would be...with you.”

Solo could feel his blood pumping. He was suddenly aware of Gaby’s bare knee leaning against his, her strong hand drawing the wedding ring down his finger... He was handling this badly; he’d meant to push Gaby towards Peril. Instead, they were whispering like lovers, discussing an assignation. He’d seduced women before; charming Deniz Şentürk held no fears for him. Now he worried that the pretend passion he’d have to summon for Gaby would end up not being so pretend after all.

“And how would it be with me?” He tried to say it with his usual insouciance but wasn’t sure if he got the tone quite right.

Gaby looked up at him. For a moment, their eyes locked and Solo read her surprise. He also saw, he hoped, a similar warmth to the one flooding through him. (Or did he hope for that? This was damn confusing). Then Gaby smiled, big and bright, and said cheerily, “Oh hello Deniz! So glad to see you.”

Solo turned to greet Deniz Şentürk. She was shorter than Gaby but, he noticed as the two gave each other light pecks on each cheek, too dignified to stand on tiptoes like a child. She was, he also noticed, dressed in a modest but stylish and fabulously expensive sundress. He thought it was Yves Saint Laurent. She was plump, had long thick black hair, currently pinned up, and startlingly green eyes.

Gaby was introducing him, “And this is my Hank,” she said.

Solo bowed slightly as Deniz offered her hand. “Utterly charmed to make your acquaintance,” he said, taking her hand in his briefly. He pulled out a chair for her and leaned in close as she sat down. “Elsie is sure we’ll get along and she is always correct about such things. She knows my tastes exactly.”

“Your tastes in what precisely?” said Deniz with a playful edge to the question.

“Why, in conversation and society.” Solo slid into his own chair, now moved considerably closer to Deniz’s. He wondered how Gaby had managed to push it over without his noticing. She was sharp, that one.

Now that Deniz was here, it was easier to focus on the job at hand. And plausibly deniable flirtation was one of Solo’s strongest weapons. He used what Gaby had told him about Deniz Şentürk to offer himself as the perfect conversational partner: interesting, witty but, crucially, slightly less intelligent than she was. He sprinkled his performance with the occasional lingering glance at Gaby. It was easier to think of Gaby as Elsbeth now that he was performing as Hank. He was attentive and courteous to Deniz, never resorting to brushing against her hand as he offered her sugar but instead, consistently holding the hint of physical contact as a possibility.

She, in her turn, was forthright, clever and accustomed to people dancing attendance on her. In another world, Solo thought, he might have liked her very well.

After two cups of tea, Solo judged the time right for his exit. He politely excused himself, offering up an unavoidable business meeting and assuring the ladies he would return for Elsbeth shortly. Before he left, he shook Deniz’s hand once more, this time daring to kiss it lightly. To Gaby, he did similar but left a longer kiss on the inside of her wrist, her words ringing in his head: _She should be able to imagine how it would be...with you._

Then he walked slowly and confidently out of the cafe, past Deniz Şentürk’s bodyguards, around the corner and let out a long slow breath. He wanted a drink. He wanted - well, he wanted to do all sorts of things with a few different people and it was a very crowded and distracting mental scene.

When he returned after about 45 minutes of distracted walking, he found Gaby and Deniz giggling like old friends. He escorted the ladies to the waiting cars and saw Deniz off. As soon as her car had turned a corner, Gaby slid her arm through his. “Oh let’s walk, Hank,” she said, “It’s too fine for driving.”

He ushered off their driver. “You were successful I take it?” he asked.

“Yes!” Gaby said exultantly, “Introducing you was helpful. She made some hints about meeting her husband.”

“Hints?’ Solo asked.

Gaby looked down demurely. “She didn’t say exactly what for. She said they were very … open minded.”

Solo’s mind briefly encompassed some open minded practices involving both Gaby and Deniz Şentürk and he nearly missed his footing. Gaby looked up at him and then said mischievously, “I told her I had always found your social skills to be completely satisfying.”

If he were a younger man, Solo knew, a younger man not trained through many years of deceit, conspiracy and worldliness, he would be blushing right now. As it was, he cleared his throat and considered the 1957 World Series.


	6. Interlude

The house was dark when Illya arrived home. He had been tracing Şentürk’s influence, talking to drug dealers and gang members, the kind of people who didn’t keep daylight working hours.

Letting himself in the house, he made his way quietly upstairs, avoiding by habit the stairs that creaked and the floorboards that groaned. He felt grimy from the smoky cafes and muddy back streets.

When he stepped out of the bathroom a few minutes later, hair still damp but feeling much cleaner, he saw the light on in Gaby’s room. Illya hesitated but then knocked softly at the door.

“Come in.”

Gaby was sitting up in bed, a book open on her lap. “What is it?” she asked.

“You’re still awake,” said Illya, “It’s late.”

“I wasn’t waiting up for you if that’s what you’re wondering,” said Gaby tartly.

“No that’s not what I - not why I -” Illya composed himself, “I did not think that.”

Gaby patted the side of the bed. “Come on, sit down.”

The bed sank as Illya sat down next to her. This close she could smell the soap Illya had used and the lingering hints of _nargile_ smoke on his clothes. Normally orderly, now his shirt was untucked and rumpled and his trousers rolled up over bare feet.

“You were not waiting for me,” Illya smiled, “So why are you sitting awake?”

“Insomnia,” Gaby answered, “I thought you knew. I’m sure there are notes in my file. I’ve had it since I was a kid.”

Gaby could tell Illya was thinking this over but she was glad he didn’t say anything. It wasn’t surprising after all; the war took many families from many little East German girls. Night was when people disappeared. Night was when it was hardest to hold on to the character you carried throughout the day.

“How did Mrs. Şentürk like Mr. Maxwell?” Illya asked.

Gaby stretched out her legs, radiating smugness. “Perfectly. We are now bona fide guests to the Şentürks’ party. It’s a shame. I like her but I know they’re rotten.”

“It’s not wise to grow attached to a mark,” said Illya. “Always leads to trouble.”

“You must have done it,” said Gaby, “Tell me."

“I am professional,” replied Illya firmly. Gaby looked at him expectantly. “I never have trouble,” he said, but less convincingly. She waited.

“Her name was Olga,” he said finally, “My first woman target. She was...strong. Tall and beautiful and strong. I let myself get too close,”  Illya smiled fondly, “She nearly killed me.”

“Nice you don’t carry a grudge,” said Gaby, irony heavy in her voice.

“Ah, Chop Shop Girl, if I held a grudge against every beautiful woman who betrayed me, we wouldn’t get very far.” Illya’s tone was teasing but his blue eyes were serious. Gaby looked away, hiding a flash of guilt. Ilya noticed and changed the subject. “What are you reading?”

Gaby handed him the book.

“ _The Idiot_.” He smiled, “You have good taste, little chop shop girl. Russian authors write masterpieces.”

“Read it to me?” Gaby scooched over to the side of the bed and patted next to her. “There’s plenty of room.”

Illya looked at the remaining half of her twin bed dubiously. Still he sat next to Gaby, leaning against the headboard and stretching his long legs over the blankets.

“I have not read it in English,” said Illya.

“Neither have I, silly,” she said. Illya opened the book and began to read, “ _Little by little, the rumours spread about town became lost in a maze of uncertainty. It was said that some foolish young prince, name unknown, had suddenly come into possession of a gigantic fortune, and had married a French ballet dancer…”_

His voice was deep and he read slowly but confidently. Occasionally he frowned over how names had been anglicized but didn’t interrupt the story to complain. After a page or two, Gaby leaned into his arm, closing her eyes.

Carefully, Illya lifted his arm and she slid against his side, head resting on his chest. He put his arm around her shoulders and held the book in front of them both. Illya’s heart trembled in his chest but he kept reading quietly and steadily. Soon Gaby’s breathing deepened and he could feel that she had fallen asleep. Her hair fell across her face and one hand rested on Illya’s chest.

Illya closed the book but didn’t move. He hadn’t allowed himself this close to Gaby alone since Rome. But nothing had changed. She drew him to her like no one else ever had. (No one? wondered a small part of his mind that kept a file on black-haired troublesome CIA agents.)  He didn’t know what would happen after this mission, what Waverly or the KGB might have planned for him. That uncertainty had never concerned him before. Now, it was unsettling. 

“Good night, little chop shop girl,” he said as he gently brushed Gaby’s hair back from her eyes, “Sleep well.”


	7. Chapter 7

Another night. Late, after midnight. Gaby and Solo had gone to Şentürk’s yacht party. They should have been back, many hours ago. Illya stood in the shadow of the curtain and watched the street. Waverly had ordered him down but he knew, he knew, that Gaby and Solo had been taken. They hadn’t checked in on time and their trackers had gone offline. He paced around their small rooms, head throbbing. 

Illya checked the window again and the trackers. He listened for a car or the slight creak of the backdoor. He circled the apartment again, weaving like a drunk man or a boxer whose head was ringing too loud to know he was beaten. He stretched his fingers, bent over and clutched his knees; the roaring in his ears was deafening. He clenched his fists and shuddered.

He remembered Solo’s word: like an animal. He wanted desperately to hurt someone, smash something, relieve the tension in his body and the chaos in his mind. Where were Solo and Gaby?

\--------

Gaby shuddered as she and Solo staggered on to shore. She was shivering, her evening dress soaking through and fluttering damply against her legs in the evening breeze. Solo’s tux was crumpled against his frame. Both had lost their shoes.

“That was not,” she gasped, “my preferred way to leave a party.” 

Solo coughed. They had washed up on the shores of the Bosphorus, somewhere between the busy city and the stately aristocratic homes. Gaby hadn’t a clue where they were. She looked at Solo with concern; he was sporting a black eye and she suspected additional bruises lurked between his sodden shirt. Her teeth chattered.

Solo wrestled out of his wet jacket and put it over her shoulders. It didn’t help much but Gaby clung to it. Leaning on each other, they staggered up the shore and collapsed once they were above the tideline. Solo began pawing at the shoulders of his jacket, now covering Gaby’s shivers.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“His trackers,” Solo’s breath wheezed concerningly through his teeth, “There must be one in here…”

After a moment he sank back on the sand. “Nothing.”

Gaby sat back too, leaning against him. Solo flinched slightly as his torso took her weight but his arm came around to pull her closer. She rubbed the rope burn at her wrists; thank god Solo had got the rope off once they were in the water.

She leant forward with an uncontrollable hiccup: half sigh, half sob. Solo stroked her hair. “We’ll be alright, Gaby. Peril hasn’t gotten rid of us yet.” His voice was light but Gaby could tell he was forcing himself. 

She took a deep breath. “Can you walk? We could get to a road…”

Solo pushed against the rocky ground and tried to stand. “I’ll be up in a moment, not to worry.” His blue eyes locked on to hers. “You should go. Find Waverly. We’ve got what we need on Şentürk.”

“And leave you here?” Gaby’s voice shook. She knew he was right, but she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Solo alone on the beach, beaten and exhausted.

“Gaby, Gaby, Gaby,” Solo said, cupping her face in his hands, “Don’t worry about me. Find Illya. He’ll look after you.” His fingers caressed the sides of her face and worked their way up into her hair. His expression changed suddenly, “Or…”

He probed into the sodden mass of her formerly glamorous hairdo and gently pulled something out. Holding it in front of them, he grinned. “A goodbye present from our super agent.” Between his fingers he held a Russian tracker.

\--------

A beeping sound pulled Illya out of his panic. He had pulled the dummy from their fighting practice out of the garage and beaten it into lumps of sawdust and canvas. His hands, which he handed bothered to wrap, were bleeding and he was sweating. What was beeping?

His own breathing harsh in his ears, he fought to focus. The sound - a tracker? A tracker. A small blazon of hope seared through his mind. He grabbed the detector, his mind racing. Somehow one of his trackers on Gaby or Solo had been activated. That could mean they needed his help. It could also mean, he forced himself to acknowledge, that they had been captured, uncovered, and he was being lured to a trap. 

It didn’t matter. He was already moving. All the violence that he’d kept mostly at bay since the first missed check-in surged up. With fast, brutal efficiency, Illya armed himself, grabbed two first aid kits, and revved up the car in the garage. The red mist was in his eyes as he pushed down the accelerator.

\---------

Gaby and Solo waited. Solo’s watch had not survived its dip into the Bosphorus which Gaby thought was a lack of foresight for a man in his position. She was worried about Solo; he seemed to be having trouble focusing on her and kept drifting off. Her shivers had stopped which she vaguely realized was probably a bad sign. She huddled closer to Solo, leaning her head against his shoulder. He placed his hand reassuringly on the back of her head, suppressing a wince as he did so. She didn’t speak the terrible fear that gnawed in the back of her mind, a fear that only existed because she was tired and in pain and cold. What if Illya didn’t find them?

\----------

As he approached Solo and Gaby’s position, Illya cut the throttle and proceeded at a more normal pace. If they were compromised, he wanted to look like an ordinary driver, at least until it was too late. When Illya judged that he was about 500 metres from their position, he left the car and continued on foot, handgun at the ready. Silently he picked his way over the uneven beach. There had been no other cars parked on the road. Surely if Solo and Gaby were being held, Şentürk’s men would have come in cars. He checked the Bosphorus for any boat lights. None.

Illya crept forward, his ruthless training working to quash the terrible fear that insisted on asking, What if it was just the tracker and Gaby and Solo were gone?

\-------------

Solo turned his head slightly. “Gaby, did you hear something?

Then a dark shadow fell over both of them and a deep voice growled, “You call this going to plan?”

Illya’s sudden presence brought Gaby a wave of relief. If she tried to say anything, she knew she would either start sobbing or laughing hysterically. Solo, true to form, quipped back, “You were more punctual in Italy, Peril.”

“Are you injured? Can you walk?” the Russian asked.

“Haul me up and I’ll be fine,” said Solo.

“I think he’s got broken ribs,” Gaby said, “They beat him.”

Illya’s face settled into that still and chilling blankness so quickly that Gaby added, “They didn’t touch me. Other than throwing us overboard.”

“I have first aid kits but if you will not die immediately, we will go back to safe house first. This beach is too exposed.” 

Illya took charge, wrapping Gaby in a blanket to protect her from the chill. When he lifted Solo to his feet, the American swayed and nearly buckled. Illya muttered some imprecation in Russian, before draping Solo’s arm around his shoulder so he could support him. He took Gaby’s hand with his other hand and slowly, the three of them limped back towards the car.

To Gaby it seemed like miles away. Her bare feet hurt and she stumbled on the uneven ground. Illya stopped and Solo sagged into his side. He looked at Gaby, “Okay Chop Shop Girl, I carry you. Not dignified but faster. Cowboy, stand up straight one minute.”

Eyes closed, Solo leaned away from Illya until he was standing on his own. Illya scooped Gaby up in a fireman’s carry and then let Solo lean back against him. “And I’ve got another shoulder for you Cowboy, if don’t want to walk,” he said.

“Is that a threat or a promise?” grumbled Solo, but both Illya and Gaby could tell it was an attempt at repartee.

Eventually, Illya got his wayward partners back to the car. Solo went horizontal in the backseat and Gaby sat up front. Illya drove as fast as he dared back to the apartment, attention torn between monitoring for cars following them or dark figures watching and the two agents stifling winces next to him.

Solo was barely conscious when they arrived at the house. Illya looked him him and then at Gaby. She read the question in his eyes and answered, “I can walk inside. You take him.”

Carefully, Illya slid Solo out of the backseat and picked him up. The American was just awake enough to feebly protest this treatment. Illya brought Solo inside and up the stairs to the living room. He deposited Solo on the sofa and then turned around to find Gaby. Illya picked her up and set her down on a divan. He was almost lightheaded with the relief of seeing them both there, safe, where he could protect them.

“Illya,” Gaby’s voice was rough, “Illya, what happened to your hands?”

Ilya looked at his fists, the blood from earlier now scabbed over. “It is nothing,” he said, “I was...boxing.”

Gaby didn’t say anything for a moment. “We’re all right now. You found us.”

Illya nodded, not trusting himself to say anything without saying everything. Instead he set to work. He built up the fire and set Gaby in front of it with a large vodka. She would need changing out of her wet clothes but Solo was in worse condition. 

He stripped the American out of his ruined tuxedo and examined his injuries. It looked like Gaby was right; Solo had been beaten but not, Illya thought, tortured beyond that. There was bruising from fists and something else, a belt? A whip? His ankle was broken, probably from the fall into the water and there was rope burn on his wrists and ankles. Illya felt sickened by the story of violence that the bruising told across Solo’s strong body. He told himself that he had seen much worse injuries, which was true, but the image of Solo’s injuries was superimposed on his memories of the same body, warm and muscular and lightly sweating, that he had been so drawn to in the hammam. Focusing, Illya cleaned the cuts and braced the ankle. He could only find two ice packs but he placed those on the worst of the bruising and wrapped Solo up warmly. 

Then he turned his attention to Gaby, who had now warmed up enough to be shivering convulsively in front of the fire. 

“Gaby,” he said softly, “We need you out of your wet things. Come on.”

Jerkily she stood up. Her fingers couldn’t close on the zipper of the dress, so Illya unzipped it and let her lean on him as she slid out of it. She was in better shape than Solo, with no obvious signs of violence except the rope burn. Illya helped her into pyjamas and cleaned her wrists. Then he wrapped her up in blankets and eased her back down onto the divan. Gaby clutched at his hand as the shivers that meant she was warming up wracked her body, but she didn’t cry or complain. Illya let her hold him back, kneeling beside her and pulling her head into his shoulder. Gaby’s arms went around him, her grip firm despite her weariness, and he gently stroked her hair and back. They waited together as her shivering stopped and her breathing evened out. She was almost asleep when he leaned her back onto the divan, bending over to leave a light kiss on her cheekbone. 

\---------------------

Solo woke briefly. He was warm, lying on the sofa, not in his bed. His head ached and when he raised himself up to look around, he felt like he’d been kicked by a horse. His ankle was splinted. Gaby was on the divan across from him, asleep. He saw Illya sitting by the window, eyes open and watchful.

“Peril?” he said hoarsely.

Illya turned and the look in his blue eyes excited and frightened Solo. “Yes?”

“Next time I get to rescue you.”

Illya chuckled, his gaze softening, “In your dreams, Cowboy.”


	8. Chapter 8

Gaby felt almost fully recovered when she awoke the next morning. She was alone in the living room, but she could hear the men’s voices coming from the kitchen. Her ruined dress had been picked up and folded neatly. She wrapped herself in the blanket and went to find clean clothes. Waverly’s voice stopped her before she got to her room.

“Gaby? We’d appreciate your company in the kitchen, if you please.”

She hesitated a moment but knew from Waverly’s tone that her immediate appearance was required. Pulling the blanket a bit closer, she went to the kitchen.

Waverly and Solo were seated at the table while Illya leaned against the counter. Three sets of blue eyes took in her appearance but only Illya seemed embarrassed. She sat down between Waverly and Solo. From behind her, a large hand set down a cup of coffee.

“Now Gaby, Solo here has told me what he found out from Deniz Şentürk before your … unfortunate discovery. I’d like to hear anything you have to add,” said Waverly. Gaby snuck a look at Solo. He had managed to change his clothes and comb his hair but the bruising on his face was stark in the daylight and he sat with a tense stillness, unlike his usual lounging grace. But when he saw her looking, he gave her a small wink with his usual breezy charm.

Gaby debriefed Waverly, describing how they were welcomed by Deniz and Cemal to the party, how they flirted and drank champagne and how the men told boastful stories. It all had been going perfectly to plan. Solo allowed himself to be lured into private by Deniz. Gaby saw Cemal follow them a few moments later and took the opportunity to snoop around the boat. From their intelligence gathering, they suspected Şentürk to be using the same boat for some of his more dubious ventures, under the guise of pleasure sailing. Gaby found the engine room, with the requisite charts and sailing manifests and an intriguingly locked safe, installed unimaginatively behind a portrait of Ataturk.

For a safe, you need a safebreaker so she went to find Solo. Gaby, as Elsie, interrupted Cemal, Deniz, and Solo in the early stages of amorous entanglement. They invited her to join them; she pretended to be flustered but agreeable.

“Hank, darling,” she had said,“First, I need you to speak to someone. He’s insisting that I play cards in _lira_ and I’m all out.” She used an U.N.C.L.E. code word to get Solo’s attention.

Solo had straightened his tie and given a winningly smile to the Şentürks. “Let me go set this gentleman straight and then we can truly enjoy your hospitality.”

Once outside, Gaby rushed Solo down to the engine room, explaining in a whisper what she’d found. Solo made short work of the lock on the safe. Inside was a treasure trove of documents, detailing the various connections that Şentürk and his associates had made in the region in the past few months, including upcoming ones. They had even managed to put back the papers and close the safe before they were caught. Cemal, apparently tired of waiting for the action to start again, had tracked them down.

“I think he believed that we hadn’t gotten into the safe,” said Gaby, “We sold him on the idea that we were trying to steal money for my gambling debts. After that, it was just his goons teaching Hank Maxwell a lesson and into the Bosphorus for us.”

Waverly steepled his hands. “Unfortunate as it is that you and Solo will no longer be welcomed chez Şentürk, the information about his next meeting can be used. Kuryakin, you’ll meet Şentürk at the rendezvous. We’ll delay the buyer arrival long enough for you to apprehend Şentürk.”

“Apprehend,” Illya said stonily.

“We’re trying to get the organization, Kuryakin,” replied Waverly, “We’d like Şentürk alive if possible. I think I can get on the line with the General for a bit of backup in case you need help.”

“I will not need help.”

“Right, well, off to make some telephone calls,” said Waverly, rising from the table, “Rendezvous is tonight; I’ll have men in position to pick you and Şentürk up.”

Waverly left the room and silence stretched out between the three agents. Gaby slipped away, muttering something about finding clean clothes.

“He’ll have protection,” remarked Solo.

“Of course.”

“Do you have a plan?”

“I meet them. We fight. I kill them and apprehend Şentürk,” Illya’s voice was flat.

“I should go with you.”

That got a reaction out of Illya. “You couldn’t walk last night!”

Solo shrugged, “That was last night. This is today.”

“And you have forgotten that Şentürk knows your face and might remember throwing it off a boat last night?” Illya had moved away from the sink to loom over Solo. His left hand beat once, twice, against his thigh.

“Doesn’t matter if he remembers me if we take him down,” said Solo.

“No,” Illya breathed hard through his nose, “You will stay here. If you will not stay here, I will tie you to chair and _make_ you stay here.”

\-----------------------

Gaby, returning to the kitchen in a loose fitting caftan, heard Illya speaking “- _make_ you stay here.”

She paused at the doorway and peered around the corner.

\----------------------------

The impact of that mental image temporarily silenced Solo. Not the right time for this, he thought as his imagination suggested various scenes involving himself, Illya, rope and a great deal less clothing. He crossed his legs, trying to ignore his body’s reaction.

“I’d like to see you try,” was his weak rejoinder.

Illya took a step forward and planted his hands on top of Solo’s forearms, pinning them to the chair. His grip was implacable but not painful.

“Everyone else seems to have the pleasure of tying you up,” he said, scanning Solo’s bandaged wrists, “Perhaps it should be my turn.”

Solo wasn’t sure how the conversation had got to this point. He thought they had been arguing - or maybe it was bantering - their usual easy disagreement that rumbled playfully under most of their interactions. Now he felt like a very different conversation was happening, one that he both found completely unbelievable and wanted desperately to continue. He brought his chin up and locked eyes with Illya.

“Most people would at least buy me a drink first,” he murmured. The expression on Illya’s faced shifted and it took Solo a moment to recognize a spark of humour in Illya’s eyes. Carefully, Illya stood up, releasing his grip on Solo’s arms. Solo almost went to let out a deep breath but stopped himself. He couldn’t let the Russian see that he’d got to him. Instead, out of habit, he checked his cuffs.

\---------------------------

Gaby chose that moment to re-enter the room.

“Any breakfast left?” she asked.


	9. Chapter 9

The sun was setting when Illya left for his meeting with Şentürk. Gaby followed him to the back gate.

“I do not like leaving you,” said Illya, his voice low. Gaby remembered how he had looked when he thought she had been hurt. She thought about what she’d seen in the kitchen, the way Illya pressed down on Solo’s arms and how Solo had tilted his head back, not in fear but invitation. She wondered briefly if either of the men had figured it out or if they still thought they were playing Who’s the Best Agent?

“We’ll be alright,” she said, “We’ll stay inside.”

Illya nodded but he still looked troubled. He took her hands and pulled her close. Gently he touched the bandages on her wrist. “Promise you won’t do something foolish,” he paused, “Promise you don’t let Solo do something foolish.”

“I’ll try,” Gaby smiled, “But you know I don’t like playing mother.”

Illya smiled at that, looking down at her. “That’s my strong woman,” he said.

“I am not your woman -” Gaby tried to say but suddenly Illya’s lips were on hers and it was warm and terrifying and wonderful. Illya’s hands held her firmly in place, as if to prevent any interruption. Gaby, standing on tiptoe, slipped her arms inside his rough coat to wrap around his waist. Her heart was beating rapidly when he gently pulled away. Illya leaned his forehead against hers, “Nothing foolish, Chop Shop Girl.”

She nodded and let go and he left, silently disappearing down the street. 

\-------------------------------

Solo sat by the window, nursing a glass of scotch. Gaby had gone up to her room and he very much needed a moment to himself to think through the events of past two days. Or really just that morning. He usually so perceptive about attraction, sensing the shift in another person’s attention, noticing that gratifying tension, knowing when to pursue and when to wait. When had that changed with Illya?

It must be recently, being cooped up in this Istanbul apartment. Or the afternoon at the  _ hammam _ . Yes, only a saint would be immune to the sight of Illya in the  _ hammam _ . 

Of course, they were only here because he hadn’t wanted to kill Illya. In fact, because he had remembered the importance of a hand-me-down watch and found it on the wrist of a hired bully and thrown it across a hotel room, hoping it meant enough.

But he’d only learnt about the watch because they’d broken into the Vinciguerra plant where he had ignored an easy exit in favour of driving a truck into a harbour and pulling 200 pounds of unconscious KGB agent to the surface. 

Which had only happened because he looked out the back of Gaby Teller’s car in East Germany at a blond giant pulling on the trunk and thought, no, it just doesn’t seem like the right thing to do.

So perhaps, it wasn’t as recent as he had thought. 

\-------------------------------

Gaby lay down on her bed. She wished she had a drink but Solo was in the living room where the bottles were and she didn’t want to see him just yet. 

Illya had kissed her.  _ Kissed _ her. And it had been...Gaby bit her lip as she remembered. Whatever she’d imagined kissing Illya would be like, this had been more. All the tension that had been running between them since Rome hadn’t dissipated. Instead, she felt like it had sharpened, a honed stab of desire that pointed directly at one quiet, giant, loyal Russian. 

As for Solo… Gaby chewed on a hangnail. There was something going on between the two men; she would stake a 1961 Jaguar on it. She wouldn’t abandon her matchmaking plans just yet. Having now kissed both of them, Gaby thought they deserved the chance to experience the same.

Now conjured, that memory wouldn’t go away. The memory that she had kept from her debrief with Waverly. The memory of when she and Solo had put on their show for the Şentürks, as the progressive, expansive American couple. When Solo-as-Hank laced his fingers through hers and pulled her against him, when he brought his face close and dropped a trail of kisses from her shoulder to jaw. When Gaby had shivered and clutched at his shoulders and he had smiled his smugly perfect smile and brought his lips to her lips and kissed her with such sweetness and warmth she began to forget it was supposed to be a charade. 

Well the charade had convinced Cemal and Deniz. Now Gaby wasn’t sure if she could convince herself it was just an act.

Lying here was intolerable. She would find a drink. What did it matter where Solo was convalescing? 

\-------------------------------

Solo’s thoughts were interrupted when Gaby joined him in the living room and immediately poured and swallowed a drink. He held out his empty glass to her and waggled it enticingly. She splashed another measure of scotch into his glass and then, rather recklessly, into her own. For a moment, they drank in silence.

Gaby sat down on the sofa and then got up and wandered around the room. She settled on a chair by the window, tapping her glass with her nails. She stood up again and looked at the chess game Illya had set out on one table. She moved a piece and put it back. She sat down.

“Worried about our super agent?” Solo asked gently, “He’ll manage.”

“Napoleon,” said Gaby abruptly, “Why did you never try to seduce me for real?”

Solo looked faintly surprised at the question. “If you are referring to Rome, you were engaged to Peril at the time.”

“Pretending to be engaged,” protested Gaby.

“He took his fiance duties  _ very _ seriously,” replied Solo, “I have no taste for fighting with jealous suitors in general, and especially when they are highly trained KGB agents.”

“Why not after?”

Solo took a long pause before answering. “Because I did not think you are the kind of woman who would find my charms persuasive.”

“And what kind of woman is that?”

“A woman who is hoping I will seduce them,” Solo answered.

Gaby threw back the rest of her scotch, adding flames to the warm glow in her stomach. She felt something in her stomach from when Illya had kissed her and when she flirted with Solo. She felt restless. She poured herself another and lay down on the floor. 

“Alexander tried to seduce me,” she said. From her upside down position she should see Solo frown slightly. “Deniz tried to seduce both of us.”

“Both kidnappers and criminals,” said Solo, “I hope I would rate higher than that.” 

“And what about Hank?”

“Hank Maxwell, American millionaire and corrupt businessman? What does he have to do with this?”

Gaby glared at him. Solo eased himself off the sofa and down to the floor to look at her straight on. “Gaby, what’s this about? You usually give me the earful if you’re angry. Come on, ‘fess up.”

Gaby rubbed at the carpet with her finger and then locked eyes with Solo, challenging him. “Hank kissed Elsbeth. You kissed me. Which of those is true?”

Watching him, Gaby saw the moment where he started to lie and then stopped. His dimples flashed briefly as he chose his words.“It was both. I wouldn’t have done it except as Hank but I’d be lying if I said I’d never thought about doing it.”

Solo knew he should say something here about Illya, stop this mad conversation about kissing Gaby. Instead, it felt like his breath was on hold as he looked into Gaby’s eyes. He knew if he leaned forward, she wouldn’t pull away. Their lips would touch, wonderful and electric, and she would put her arms around his neck and he would pull her onto his lap and -

The telephone rang, shrill and urgent. Gaby and Solo both jumped as if shocked and broke eye contact. Gaby ran to the hall to answer.

A moment later, she was back. “Waverly. We need to get to a safe house now. Can you get yourself to the car?”


	10. Chapter 10

Illya slunk through the Istanbul backalleys, his collar turned up against the chill coming off the Marmara Sea. He pushed thoughts of Gaby and Solo into the back of his mind; now he needed to be the super agent they called him, ruthless and extraordinary.

Around him, fish sellers and hookah shops were shuttering their doors. Stray cats stared at him from atop covered fruit stands and inside doorways. He was down by the fishing docks now, hearing the wash of waves against the docks and the soft creak of wooden boats. Ahead was the pier where the exchange was supposed to take place.

Under the brim of his cap, the Russian’s eyes swept the area, scanning for anything out of place. From all around him, he heard the evening call to prayer, lifting from the spires of a thousand mosques. That was the signal for the meeting.

Right on time, a black car with tinted windows stopped at the foot of the pier. Illya saw the figure of Şentürk step out of the backseat. Three broad shouldered men walked next to him: bodyguards. The driver stayed in the front seat.

The four men walked a few feet down the pier. Şentürk lit a cigarette and looked at his watch. This was his moment. Illya walked toward the small group, alert for any sign of attack. Şentürk squinted at him in the dim light and frowned.

“Where is Lafontaine?” he demanded.

“Your buyer isn’t coming,” Illya said.

One of the bodyguards turned his head and stepped forward into the light of the car’s headlamps. Illya’s eyes narrowed and his right hand tapped against his leg.

“Здравствуйте Kuryakin,” the man said.

\-----------------------------------------

About a mile away, a telephone rang. Waverly answered, listened, and answered. He put down the receiver then picked it up and made another call.

“Kuryakin’s been compromised. Get to the safe house. Quick as you can, Miss Teller.”

  
Waverly hung up the telephone again and stood for a moment looking out the window at a glimmering sea of lights. “Bloody Russians.”

\-----------------------------------------

Gaby was driving and Solo was talking. Once they received the command from Waverly, they were in the car and driving within minutes. Solo pushed aside the pain from his bruises and broken ankle as they hastily shuttered the windows and threw their emergency bags in the trunk of the car. Now he struggled into a pair of dark blue trousers and matching cable knit sweater in the backseat of the car.

“Waverly didn’t say anything else? Nothing about what happened?”

“Nothing else,” Gaby’s answer was curt as she weaved through the poorly lit streets.

“‘Kuryakin’s compromised’ That could mean anything. And we’re supposed to run off to a safe house. Illya’s probably gone into that berserker rage of his. He probably tried to fight an army of goons and lord knows what sort of trouble he’s in. This is precisely why one of us should have gone with him. He needs someone with a calm head around to keep him from starting fights.”

“And Waverly’s another matter. Delighted as I am to be temporarily liberated from the shackles of the CIA, I don’t care for his high handed management style. At least if the CIA wants to screw me, they’ll do it to my face and not apologise for it. Waverly’s got more than he bargained for, if you ask me. The best agents in the world on his payroll and he doesn’t know how to handle us. If Waverly wants a team, he should use us like one.”

“Solo,” said Gaby, “Shut up.”

Once they were outside the city limits and fairly sure they weren’t being followed, Solo switched with Gaby so she could pull on a pair of capris and a boat neck sweater, both in black. She pulled her hair back and pinned it severely. Although it wouldn’t work with anyone who had seen them closely, they no longer resembled the extravagant Maxwell couple that the Şentürks could describe.

Gaby returned to the driver’s seat and they continued on, into the dark countryside. In the quiet rush of the speeding car, Solo broke the silence. “If we find - when Illya’s back, I’m not going to interfere. I saw how it is between you.”

Gaby flushed.

“Or it's already happened?” he asked, looking at her closely, “And after all my efforts to get you two together.”

Gaby’s hands tightened on the steering wheel and her voice was ominously even. “Everything _you_ did?”

Solo looked smug. “You can thank me at any time.”

“Thank you? When you’re too dense to see what’s right in front of you?”

“I see you and Illya perfectly well.”

Gaby snorted. “Oh you do, do you?” she said, “And what about you? Look at yourself, Mr. Napoleon Solo. Everything you’ve done, my ass. All you’ve done is go round in circles with him yourself and think it was about me!”

Solo was nonplussed.

“You, ah, noticed,” he said finally.

“You noticed?” Gaby was surprised, “When?”

“Recently,” he said, “Or perhaps not so recently really.”

There was a long silence.

“Do you think Illya knows?” She didn’t think she had ever seen Solo unsure of himself before.

“With anyone else I would say yes. With Peril, I am not sure.” He hesitated, looking at Gaby. “So what happens now?”

“We drive,” she said, “And wait. Unless you have a better idea.”


	11. Chapter 11

Illya’s mind spun wildly as Lemontov greeted him. Why had they never noticed at KGB presence with Şentürk before? What were Lemontov’s orders? The KGB had released Kuryakin to U.N.C.L.E. but that didn’t mean they agreed with his orders under Waverly. But no, he reassured himself, if the KGB wanted him dead or out of the way, there were less complicated ways to accomplish it. Perhaps this was all some horrible coincidence

“Hello Lemontov,” he said, keeping his face and tone expressionless. 

Şentürk interrupted, “What is going on here?” He raised his hand before either of them could answer. “You have caused something to stop Lafontaine, yes?” Illya nodded once, not willing to commit more than that. “Then we will not stay here. Get them in the cars.”

Illya cast his eyes around as the other bodyguard hustled him to a car around the corner. Lemontov went with Şentürk. He didn’t see any of Waverly’s men but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. What should he do? While he had no concern about overcoming the one guard currently at his shoulder, that wouldn’t get him closer to getting Şentürk. And there was the matter of what the KGB’s stake in all this was. He would stay quiet, follow Lemontov’s lead until he knew what the situation was. If it came to a fight, Illya was confident he would come out on top.

To his surprise, he was taken not to an abandoned warehouse, underground bunker, or desolate railyard suitable to interrogation, but to Şentürk’s comfortable townhouse in a residential neighbourhood. He was brought inside and left without a word in a comfortable salon. He hadn’t seen Şentürk or Lemontov but he hadn’t been tied up either. The bodyguard, still silent, took up position by the door; Illya ignored him. If he needed to get out, he would get out. Instead, he paced around the room, thinking.

Lemontov was undoubtedly contacting his controller at the KGB to find out what Illya was doing in the middle of his job. What would he be told? Mentally, Illya cursed the complications that UNCLE had introduced into his life; this kind of mix up would never have happened before.

His musings were interrupted by the arrival of Lemontov. 

“Hello Kuryakin,” he said, “I’ve been informed that you’re working for a rival setup. But whatever you’re doing here, you’re not needed.”

Illya remained silent.

“Remember your orders, Kuryakin,” said Lemontov, “Remember who we serve. These new partnerships - they cannot be as important as our duty to the Party.” 

Illya struggled to keep his face still. He was being torn between old master and new: KGB and UNCLE, the harsh discipline of home and then fragile camaraderie of Rome and Istanbul. 

“Loyalty to the Party - Loyalty to the Motherland,” Lemontov quoted, “And you are loyal, aren’t you, Kuryakin? You’ve seen where disloyalty can land you.”

He felt the urge to bury his head in his hands or reach out and fight until the red mist dissipated and he was left alone…. Like an animal, scoffed a mid-Atlantic accent in his mind. They expect you to behave like an animal. Illya’s right hand touched the watch on his left wrist - that old reminder of his father’s weakness now overlaid with the memory of a Rome hotel room when he decided, against orders, not to fight. 

With that thought, his head cleared and he breathed one deep clear breath through his nose. 

“You are right,” he said to Lemontov, “I am loyal.”

Then he smashed his elbow in Lemontov’s face.

The guard by the door was drawing his gun but Illya flung the chair he was sitting on across the room into the guard’s face. Lemontov was getting to his feet. Illya kicked him back to the floor and then lunged across the room to deal with the guard. The man let off a shot but it went wide and by then Illya had knocked him off his feet. Lemontov was standing again; his KGB training made him a much stronger opponent than the now unconscious guard. The two of them weaved around the room, trading punches and kicks, until Illya lost patience and broke Lemontov’s knee. 

Attracted by the noise, more guards were arriving. The red mist was beginning to fall into Illya’s eyes as he settled into the rhythm of the fight. He steadily and methodically fought his way through Şentürk’s men, aware that his time was limited. As soon as Şentürk realized the threat was serious, he would be out of this house and on his way to another. Briefly, Illya considered the possibility of a car chase through the crowded Istanbul streets. No, he thought, better to find him before he bolts.

He looked up, breathing heavily. He was alone in the hallway, with six dead or unconscious thugs on the floor. His left trouser leg was wet and he looked down to see red blood soaking through his grey serge trousers. He found two handguns that were still loaded and slipped one through his belt. Then he set off to find Şentürk.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

“We don’t know what happened. Without that information, pursuing Kuryakin would be...foolish.” Waverly’s men had tracked Illya to a townhouse own by Şentürk but he was unwilling to commit to a full scale assault. Waverly’s unspoken comment that perhaps Illya had betrayed them raised Gaby’s temper.

“I insist that the two of you remain here until we determine what has happened,” Waverly ordered. 

As the door closed behind Waverly, Gaby and Solo looked at each other. 

“We’re going to get him,” said Gaby. It was not a question.

“Of course,” said Solo, “You’ll have to drive.”


	12. Chapter 12

Once again, Gaby and Solo found themselves speeding through the dark countryside, with the lights of Istanbul growing steadily brighter ahead of them. Solo examined the map with a penlight, giving Gaby low voiced instructions. She handled the car smoothly through the quiet pre-dawn streets until they reach Şentürk’s quarter.

“Park around the corner,” said Solo. They climbed out of the car and snuck back to the entrance of the townhouse.

“How’s your ankle?” whispered Gaby.

“I’m fine,” said Solo, “Stop fussing like a mother hen.”

They observed the front of the house for a moment. “No guards,” said Solo, “Let’s go."

Gaby nodded and they ran up to the front door which yielded quickly to Solo’s lockpicking attentions. They slipped inside and shut the door behind them. The entryway was dark and sumptuous. Moving slowly, they crept through the house, peering into empty rooms.

In the car on the way over, they had reviewed the plans of the house and agreed that Illya was likely to be secured somewhere in the interior of the house, probably on a lower floor. As their search yielded no results, Gaby began to feel desperate.

“Where is everyone?” she whispered.

Then they rounded a corner and found the answer to her question. Six men lay in various prone positions on the floor, clustered around an open door. Solo raised his eyebrows, impressed, “I think we’ve found where they put him.”

He examined the bodies. “He took their guns. Where did you go, Peril?”

Gaby looked at him. “What was the mission?” she asked.

Solo swore. “That bloody Russian. He’s gone to find Şentürk.”

\--------------------------------------------------------

Illya began to search systematically. The dossier they had collected on Şentürk included a basic schematic of this townhouse. He made his way to the back of the house where Şentürk’s office and private rooms were likely to be. As he went, he cut telephone wires to prevent Şentürk from calling in reinforcements. He encountered no guards or staff but the wound on his thigh was still bleeding, leaving a trail of droplets that would lead anyone straight to him. His time was running out. Where had Şentürk hidden himself?

\--------------------------------------------------------

“He was here and then he went to look for Şentürk. Think of the plans. Where would he have gone?”

Gaby closed her eyes in concentration. “Upstairs. At the back, to look into the garden.”

Solo nodded. “Let’s go.”

They followed the hallway to its end, where they discovered a telephone on the wall, its wires cut. Solo pointed to it, his expression eloquent. They found the stairs, stepping on the outside edges to avoid any creaks. Gaby, looking down, stopped suddenly and pointed. Solo saw what she was looking at: a drop of blood, gleaming on the wood. He caught her eyes and jerked his thumb up. They began to move faster.

Solo cracked open the door at the top of the stairs. The upstairs hallway was dark but a muffled thump to the left caught his attention. He and Gaby jogged along the hallway towards the sound. A door at the end was ajar and they raised their guns as they approached. A gunshot cracked and the next moment, a tall figure stumbled out of the doorway.

“Illya!” Gaby choked out. Illya turned in surprise, his face white in the dim hallway. Another loud thud emanated from inside the room. Without a word, Illya plunged back in and now Gaby and Illya could hear him swear softly in Russian. He returned a moment later with Cemal Şentürk in front of him, hands tied.

“Peril,” said Solo dryly, “You shouldn’t have.”

“We need to go,” said Illya.

“Why, Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell, this is a pleasant surprise,” said Şentürk.

“Shut up,” Gaby and Solo said in unison. Illya sighed, removed Şentürk’s tie from around his neck and gagged him with it.

“What happened to you?” hissed Gaby, “Getting kidnapped and shot was _not_ part of the plan.”

“Now we go,” Illya repeated. “It was not kidnapping. And I am not shot.”

“Not kidnapping? You went with them freely?” Gaby kept her gun up but her jaw was clenched and she was blinking furiously. “That’s what Waverly said. He suggested that you -”

“Gaby,” Solo interjected, “Perhaps now is not the best time.”  
  
“I agree,” said Illya, “We have Şentürk: we hand him over, mission complete.”

“He suggested you had betrayed us!”

“I did not,” Illya said simply, “And now we are wasting time in our enemies house. You have a car?”

“Yes,” Solo answered while Gaby seethed. Illya prodded Şentürk over to Solo, who grabbed his shoulder and led him to the stairs. Illya reached out to touch Gaby’s cheek. She glared at him. “Nothing foolish you promised me. What do you call this, little chop shop girl?”

Gaby rolled her eyes and Illya tilted her face up to his. Gently he kissed her and then whispered in her ear, “Now. We really do have to leave.”


	13. Chapter 13

Illya remembered agreeing to die. He remembered the first time, going down under the fists of his father’s enemies in a cold alley. He hadn’t expected to wake up. There had been three more times when his eyes had closed and and he had nodded to death, very well, it is time. The third time had been in the waters of the Vinciguerra plant.

The speedboat was in flames and capsizing. The guards were hovering over the wreckage with machine guns. Underwater, Illya considered his options, everything around him seemingly in slow motion. He could try to find a way out, underwater. No - the breath had been knocked out of him when he was flung from the crash and he knew he only had about another minute of air in his lungs. He could swim to the surface to be shot by the guards - or captured and tortured. A long moment as his sluggish brain considered this option. No. Better to disappear than to imperil the mission. His mind flashed to Gaby’s warm arms around his neck as he carried her to bed. No. A picture of Solo’s face, staring at him through the rear window of Gaby’s car in East Berlin. Another moment he could have died if Solo had raised his gun. For the first time it occurred to Illya to wonder why Solo hadn’t. His chest was tight and his head ached from the pressure of the water. Very well, he thought, it is time. His eyes closed.

The next thing was cold air. Cold air and a warm arm around his chest and Solo’s low voice in his ear. “Stay quiet. And follow me.” Illya remember the desperate rush back to Rome and the hotel, where Solo promptly took over seducing Victoria Vinciguerra to save both their covers.

The thing that was different about the third time he had agreed to die was that the third time, someone came for him.

The room had grown dark around him as he sat motionless on the sofa. Illya came back to reality when the light switched on and he heard Gaby gasp, “Scheisse! Illya, what are you doing sitting in the dark like that? You’re going to give me a heart attack.”

“Gaby,” he said, ignoring her question, “When you were captured by Alexander Vinciguerra, what did you think about?”

She sat down on the chair across from him and curled her legs up. He could tell she was gathering her thoughts. “I knew that meant my father was dead because they had got what they needed. He was all I had left, even if he wasn’t much of a father. I thought I would die. And I thought perhaps I would have to sleep with Alexander before I died.”

Illya’s muscles tensed even at the mention of it. With an effort he uncurled his hands and laid them flat on his thighs.

“I would not have let that happen,” he said.

She was quiet for a moment, eyes locked on his. “I thought I might not die when Solo told me to hold on to the car. I knew I would not die when I saw you get up from the motorcycle crash. Perhaps I had something left after all.”

Illya stood and walked to Gaby’s chair. He slid his hand down her bare arm from shoulder to wrist and took her hand. “Would you like to dance?” he asked.

She looked up at him, a glint of mischief in her eyes. “I prefer to wrestle.”

Illya chuckled and drew her to her feet. With his other hand, he put the needle down on the record player, releasing the smooth notes of Sidney Bechet’s _Petite Fleur_. Gaby stepped into his arms and he rested his palm on the small of her back. Her skin was warm and she smelled faintly like engine oil.

“Were you in the garage today?” he murmured as they slowly moved around the room.

“Yes, tuning up the Benz.”

They turned around the corner of the sofa and Gaby rested her head against Illya’s chest. He could feel the warmth of her cheek through his shirt.

“Illya,” she said, her voice slightly muffled, “Do you remember when you went to the meeting with Şentürk?”

“Yes,” he said, “My memory is not so feeble that I forget a few days ago.”

“Why did you kiss me then?”

“Why?” asked Illya, tilting his chin so he could see Gaby’s face. “Because I wanted to. For a long time. There were many interruptions before.”

Her smile was teasing, inviting, promising. Illya bent down and pressed his lips to hers. His heart was racing and he felt his hands trembling but the energy was not from anger. They kissed and Illya felt the trembling in her body as they pressed themselves together. Gaby dropped back down to her bare feet.

“No interruptions,” he said. Gaby’s cheeks were pink and he leaned forward again, intending to kiss the brights spots of blush.

“May I cut in?” Solo’s voice came from the doorway.

“Be my guest,” Gaby said. Illya fixed her with that intense stare that heated her up from inside out. She felt his eyes on her as he let go of her hand and Solo slid an arm around her back.

“You’re not bad dancers,” he said, his tone bland, “I was enjoying watching you.”

How long was he there, Gaby wondered. She looked up at Solo and saw nothing but a relaxed smile as he deftly steered her around the table. She narrowed her eyes; Solo’s face was too expressive to be truly neutral.

The record ended but Illya put on another, Billie Holiday. Napoleon smiled and sang softly _I’m a fool to want you, to want a love that can’t be true_. His voice was light and blended sweetly with the music.

Gaby looked up, into his blue eyes that were smiling at her as they swayed in the parlour. Her breath seemed to have forgotten its own rhythm. His gaze snapped up over her shoulder and then Illya was behind her and Solo deftly spun her into the Russian’s arms.

Illya gathered her up firmly and Gaby squashed a bubble of laughter. Oh no, she thought, it might be fun but I am not going to be passed between these two like a toy doll. She let Illya lead her through another song, conscious of Solo watching them over his scotch glass.

Then she stepped back. “My turn to sit out. You two can carry on.”

Both men turned startled gazes first on her and then on each other. Solo was the first to break. He raised one sardonic eyebrow and put down his glass. “I’ll try anything once.”

Gaby poured herself a drink and settled on the sofa to watch. It took Solo and Illya some time to sort themselves out. Both men started out leading which led to bumped shins and some shoving.

“Go ahead, Peril,” said Solo finally, “Trying to lead you would be like pulling a lead weight anyway.”

Illya accepted his victory with the particular stoic expression he used when he was pleased with himself. “It is only sensible. I am the taller.”

Solo rolled his eyes. “No woman ever had to dance with a shorter man?” he scoffed, “Though I can hardly imagine the lady that would overtop you.”

Illya frowned slightly. “I’m sure she would be magnificent.”

“A Valkyrie goddess, no doubt.”

“The Valkyrie were not Russian, Cowboy,” chided Illya.

“Who said she had to be Russian?”

Gaby slipped out the door to use the toilet as they bantered. When she came back, the record had run down again but Napoleon and Illya were still standing close in the middle of the room. Her heart fluttered as she watched Napoleon lean against Illya. She wondered if this is what Solo had felt, watching her and Illya dancing. She stood still, not wanting to disturb them. Illya bent his head slightly and said something. Solo laughed. “You can come in Gaby.”

“How did you know I was there?” she said, as the two men broke apart.

Illya smiled. “Engine oil. The Benz.”

Solo brought her refilled glass to her and handed Illya one. Gaby was mildly surprised when Illya accepted it. In fact, he looked a little flushed. Gaby took a sip from her glass to hide her smile.

Solo removed his jacket and, folding it nearly, placed it over the back of his chair. Gaby appreciated the way his crisp white shirt outlined his shoulders. He sat down, frowned and then looked at Illya in mock outrage.

“Peril you didn’t!”

“I do not know what you’re talking about,” Illya replied calmly.

Solo got up again and ran his fingers inside the collar of his jacket. He pulled out a small black tracker and held it accusingly in front of Illya. “While we were dancing, Peril! You are the very limit.”

Illya said nothing but smiled as he held his hand out. Solo dropped the tracker into his palm with an exasperated sigh.

Gaby felt around her shoulders. “Are there any on me?”

“No,” said Illya, “They are harder to hide in a sundress. I would put it in the lining of your handbag.”

“You didn’t!” Gaby looked around for her purse before Solo chuckled and she saw Illya’s smile. She shoved Illya’s shoulder as he sat on the sofa and flopped down on the other end, putting her feet in his lap.

Solo broke the silence. “There’s something we need to talk about.” He was staring meditatively down at his glass, swirling the amber liquid gently. Gaby felt Illya come alert, the way his attention focused, going from relaxed to prepared instantly.

“Gaby,” Solo drew out her name, “has not fulfilled her end of the bargain.” He looked up at her, his blue eyes soft and laughing, even as he kept his tone severe. “What are you going to teach us, Gaby Teller?”

Gaby choked, then laughed. Illya abruptly downed his drink. Solo twisted his eyebrows up at them, as if to say ‘what did you think I was going to say?’  
“So demanding, Mr. Solo,” she answered, stretching back over the arm of the sofa, “I will have to think about it. Cars and ballet are all I’m good at. That and flirting with depraved millionaires.”

Solo laughed and poured another round of drinks. “I nominate Illya for the flirting lessons. I’d like to see that.”

“Flirting is unnecessary,” announced Illya, “You are too flashy Cowboy. All one needs to do is simply state the facts and maintain eye contact.”

“That sounds more like an interrogation technique,” remarked Solo.

Illya smiled serenely, “There are some similarities.”

“Does it work?” asked Gaby.

“I name no names but yes, it works.” Illya split a long look between Solo and Gaby. Gaby blushed again and Solo rapidly swallowed his scotch.

“And now the record’s done,” he said, getting up to put on another one. Nina Simone crooned into the small room. Solo drew Gaby to her feet and slowly spun her around the room.

Illya watched from the sofa. He could feel the effect his words had had on the atmosphere; although Gaby and Solo didn’t look at him, the three of them were connected, a warm fizz of electricity running beneath their actions. Illya felt a deep shudder run inside him as something unclenched, something that had been tight and twisted for too many years to count. _It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, it’s a new life for me_ , sang Nina, _and I’m feeling good._

Then the song changed and Gaby grabbed his hand and pulled him into their dance. They ran down three more records before Gaby freed herself and collapsed on the sofa. Solo, his waistcoat unbuttoned and dark hair falling over his forehead, fetched them all another drink.

“It’s vermouth,” he said, holding out their glasses, “We seem to have run out of anything more palatable.”

He looked down at Gaby on the sofa. “She’s asleep.”

“Yes,” said Illya, “She sleeps easily when she drinks.”

Solo shot him a speculative look. Silence fell between the two men. Illya gently moved Gaby’s glass away from her curled fingers and Solo draped his jacket over her.

“She sure is something,” said Solo pensively. Illya nodded, his gaze still on Gaby. Solo went on. “I don’t want to horn in where I’m not wanted -”

“Cowboy, that is exactly what you love to do, constantly,” said Illya.

“-but I always seen that Gaby’s tastes were more for the diamond in the rough.”

“I suppose you consider yourself the polished diamond?” said Illya, sarcastically.

“What I’m trying to say is, I’m not going to get between you,” Solo looked uncharacteristically sad as he said, “It’s pretty rare to find someone who knows about what we do. No pretending to be someone you’re not. How else can you trust someone?”

Illya knelt next to Gaby and said to Solo, “Look.” He picked up Gaby’s hand and held it for a moment. When he went to put it down, her fingers clung to his. “Trust,” he said, “It is a fearsome thing. We are in a dangerous line of work.”

Solo’s eyes were soft as he looked at Illya and the sleeping Gaby. “It is a fearsome thing indeed.” Then, hesitantly, he put out his own hand. “And much harder than flirting”

Illya stood, disentangling his fingers from Gaby’s. He took Napoleon’s hand. Their blue eyes met. “Cowboy, you are not very observant for a spy,” said Illya, “You see one thing and close your eyes to another. Yes, it is rare to find someone who knows what we do, who we are. With one person, you become partners. And when there are more than one such person, you become a team. That is what we are.”

“But you and Gaby-” Solo protested.

“Yes, me and Gaby. And you and me,” interrupted Illya, “And, I suspect, you and Gaby. You can ask her in the morning.”

For the first time since meeting the American, Illya had rendered Solo speechless. “I chose this team over the KGB. You can choose us too.”

Solo closed his eyes and his grip tightened in Illya’s hand. Then he let out a long breath, almost a sigh. “All right Peril, you’ve got me.”

There was a moment of complete stillness, encapsulating and shielding the admission. Solo broke the silence. “State the facts and maintain eye contact,” he quoted, “It’s a rough technique but effective.” He paused and resumed some of his usual suave tone. “What other techniques do you have to show me, Super Agent?”


End file.
